


Hurricane

by orphan_account



Category: Black Sails
Genre: AU, F/M, Male Solo, charles vane jacking off, hope u enjoy guys, masturbation fantasies, oops i fucked up, sort of, uh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-26
Updated: 2014-02-26
Packaged: 2018-01-13 19:33:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1238344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Captain Charles Vane of the Ranger is in a hurricane, and there is no backing out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hurricane

**Author's Note:**

> So basically I misunderstood the third episode of Black Sails by missing half the episode and barely paying attention to the second half. This is the extremely sexual result. Oops? Short, with plenty of errors because it is not beta'd, and I'm far too lazy atm to fix my terrible tense use, but here, enjoy it anyway.

Vane hadn’t intended for this to happen. Max was supposed to be his bargaining chip, collateral if something went wrong. She wasn’t . . . a toy to be passed back and forth amongst his men, something to be enjoyed and beaten to bits on a whim. But he couldn’t very well stop this, could he? Anne and Jack would stand by him 100% if he barked out orders to stop, but they weren’t the ones participating. No, it took the brute force and hurricane of Eleanor, hair undone, his seed still dripping from her thighs, to stop the madness.

Where had it even begun? Flint? This deal? Before that? He didn’t know. He stared her down, didn’t utter a word as she screeched at his crew, swore and tore them to shreds with her words. He did not speak as they dispersed, and Anne and Jack stood by his side. He continued to be silent, even as he understood, finally, why Max had run; the hurricane was killing her, blowing down trees and slapping her with wind and blowing sand in her eyes. He could not run from it. No, instead Charles would burst into the hurricane over and over again, searching for the eye of the storm for its calm, its sweet brevity. Max could have handled it, could have run straight into the storm if not for the eye of the storm always being out of reach, now. She had felt it, once, just like he had. Now she could not. 

Max stood by him, no less a storm than Eleanor, even as the kohl ‘round her eyes smeared across her cheeks. But Eleanor did not. Blonde hair whipped about her, feet bare in the sand, splinters in her fingers, and her nose wrinkled in contempt at him. Her eyes were hard, and her heart was stone; she blamed him for this, and she had every right to.

“I’ll forget that I loved you once.” 

Once? As in now? Even hours after watching Eleanor stare at him with absolute hatred in her eyes; he’s pulling on his cock, handkerchief stuffed into his mouth to block out the sound. He finds himself imagining that it’s not cotton and sand on his tongue, but a woman’s cunt, and as he let his thoughts wander he wondered if it could be Max astride his face.

That seemed quite right, to make amends to the French girl with tongue and teeth and lips tasting salt water and burying his nose in a thatch of dark curls. He would taste her sweetness and lap at her tartness until she was quivering on his tongue and gushing onto his chin. Eleanor could ride, or she could use her hands, or her mouth, or whatever it was she wished to use. Or she could watch, and Max could lean back and take his cock in her hand, leaking and hard and hot. It did not matter, only that he could bring them both pleasure. 

Perhaps after Max was worn and lying down, eyes slipping closed, he could press his still-damp mouth to Eleanor’s puss, blonde and white and pink where Mac was dark and brown and red, and suckle her, lick and rub and tease until she, too, was arching her back and crying out her completion to the heavens. Perhaps he would slip his cock inside her and thrust until he found his own completion, or perhaps he would take his cock in hand and pump, eyes on the two women, cunts wet and their tastes still on his tongue until he would spill on the ground.

Perhaps, perhaps, and perhaps right now he was grunting, back arching, cum spurting from his prick and baptizing the ground, dripping over his fingers and soiling his trousers. Vane collapsed and took the handkerchief from his mouth, wiped his hands and half hard cock before tossing the cloth across his tent. A few fidgets later and the wet spot was too far to accidentally roll onto. He turned on his side, closed his eyes. The hurricane continued to rage.


End file.
